


no names, no pack drill.

by diaghileafs



Category: Full House (US)
Genre: During Canon, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Single POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 09:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7929457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/pseuds/diaghileafs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As his birthday approaches, Jesse is anxious about turning twenty-five and asks Joey to help him tick something off his list. (Post-S1, Pre-S2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	no names, no pack drill.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something that wasn't completely AU and didn't involve one or both of them dying.

He says it in the middle of dessert, sinking a silver fork into his slice of cherry pie.

Joey must have heard him wrong; he’s really giving some girl over his shoulder the eye, powdered sugar on his thumb, probably a pretty blonde in a tight dress he can sweet talk real easy. Joey twists around to give his seal of approval – Jesse’s licking cream off his lips, tongue sticking to the corners of his mouth – but there’s just an old man shouting at a waiter to get him hot milk.

Every drop of blood has reached boiling point in Joey’s cheeks. _Oh, no._ The hubbub of polite conversation is drowned out by his heart beating in his ears. _Oh, God._

This is a dream: he’ll wake up any minute, hot legs and cloudy thoughts tangled in his bed sheets. Jesse will be upstairs, not this close across the table, staring at him like _that._ Not slowly parting Joey’s knees with his own and sliding his foot up the inside his thigh. Joey pinches himself; his skin pricks up red, Jesse is making every cell in his body come alive.

It’s a mid-August afternoon. The dining hall mantle clock is obscured by the sizeable Southern businessman seated adjacent to them; his associate opens a pack of Mexican cigars and as he slides one into the light, Joey sees the time with a frantic stab of panic – 15:30, Danny and the girls will be well on their way to Claire’s by now.

“Hello – earth to Joseph, did you hear what I said?”

When Jesse mentioned casually that morning that they should go out to celebrate having the house to themselves for a long weekend, Joey imagined a drive-in burger and root bear with their feet up on the couch, “I thought you just wanted to have lunch,” he whispers, eyes everywhere but his roommate’s face, excruciatingly aware suddenly of himself, that they are two men eating a three-course meal alone.

“Oh,” he sits back, his cotton sock rubs out the static on Joey’s jeans and falls away, he sounds offended, “so you think I’m cheap?”

Maybe Joey didn’t read the fine print of their friendship properly. Was there a clause that Katsopolis J. would at any given time – a few miles outside Belmont, in a four-star hotel on a Thursday afternoon – ask him for sex, just as nonchalantly as passing the salt? He really doesn’t think it would be the kind of male bonding that Danny would encourage.

“Look,” Jesse says, almost apologetically, “I’m going to be twenty-five next week, I really need to start thinking about settling down, but there’s still this one thing I haven’t done.”

Joey turns his attention back to his melting slab of cheesecake as the oil baron leaves in a flurry of twenty-dollar bills. “Jess, if you hadn’t noticed,” he goes to wipe his mouth with his napkin but it’s warm from his lap and he thinks better of it, “we live in San Francisco, I’m sure there’d be guys queuing round the block to –” cold water realisation down his spine, Joey wonders why exactly he’s trying to talk himself out of this.

He can’t say that he’s _never_ thought about it, that Jesse hasn’t _at some point_ entered his mind in a vague fantasy – both safely in their segregated rooms in and separate beds at night, and Joey can’t deny that it felt nice pressed up against him on the way here; the vibrations of the _Harley_ and sandy California roads, his arms wrapped around his waist and the way Jesse touched his hand occasionally to make sure he was okay. He’s not bad looking by any means and that’s the thing.

“We can’t,” he is grasping at straws, albeit unsuccessfully, because his best friend’s brother-in-law could be playing an elaborate joke at his expense and Joey is a comedian because he doesn’t like being laughed at. His lungs have jumped into his throat now as though they’ve just turned a sharp corner, “we can’t, not at home anyway.”

The waiter comes with a hostess trolley, “would the gentlemen care for coffee?” there’s smudges on his white gloves; this place hasn’t been cleaned since 1969.

This could be a million miles away from Girard Street (Joey feels a twinge of disgust and excitement) where they are dads and brothers – slaves to the Family Tanner work wheel, school time traffic, early mornings awake with the baby. Here they could just _be_ two men in an anonymous ditzy-print suite during the middle of the day, it wouldn’t have to mean anything.

“No, we’ve got other plans,” the words slip out before he can catch them. A smile breaks out across the whole of Jesse’s face, right up to his hairline. No one’s ever gazed at him like he’s spun the moon before. Jesse asks for everything to be put on the tab for Room 88 and places the keys next to the plastic plant centrepiece.

Neither one of them means to move, to reach out, but Joey’s fingers find themselves wrapped around Jesse’s wrist. He can feel the hard throb of his pulse – familiar, lingering scent of sandalwood. They walk out of time; weave in between empty tables as long as they don’t have to let go. By the end of the long stretch of red-carpeted hall, their hands are firmly slotted together.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jesse’s voice bounces nervously against the cast iron elevator walls before he’s even pressed the floor number, “I’m not – we could just watch the tube, they’ve got cable.”

It’s a testing of waters at first, the kiss, a simple connection of lips. A spark that breaks above the atmosphere and sets everything alight, again and again until they are anchored against each other, compounds of cherry and vanilla. Fingernail marks in leather, teeth-shaped nicks that can be hidden by high-necked hockey shirts. They reach the top floor uninterrupted, little angel kisses speeding up with each mechanical jolt.

The doors open, they stand awkwardly for a moment, unsure where Jesse ends and Joey begins. The younger man breaks away first, strutting ahead, a slight tremor in his hands as they fumble to unlock the door, which would usually go unnoticed to the naked human eye, but now the last two years rush through Joey like a electricity. Bright oranges and watery blues, flesh coloured blur of his Grecian body coming out of the shower – damp, defined – his sweatpants hanging on his hips a little too low.

Maybe he’s overthinking this whole thing. He probably is. His natural state, default setting is screw-up, feet always teetering on the wire of self-sabotage, whether it’s a big Vegas gig or potential relationship; has been since the fourth grade when, impulsively, he dumped his model volcano in a trash can, ten minutes before it was due and Danny looked on, aghast. It’s safer to keep his cards close to his chest – not like Jesse who is stood, waiting with his hair over his eyes, and holding his breath impatiently.

“Jojo?”

Would being a notch on his bedpost be so bad, _Big Joe Stud_ pencilled in at the back of his black book?

If Joey dies right now, at this moment – massive coronary, sudden cardiac arrest – his heart’s pounding against his ribcage so violently, it’s a high probability, he could say he was happy. This would have been enough.

“Pretty darn stupid idea, huh?” Jesse has bridged the gap between them again, his hand lightly touching the small of Joey’s back, heat coming through the flannel. His features are lopsided in disappointment, fingers grazing over the wick of Joey’s neck where all the soft blonde hairs are stood on end, gabbing rations while he can, “just forget about it, okay? Let’s go home.”

If they go home, the painted lady will have dieted in their absence. Too small to stay away from each other without the girls and their jump ropes there to act as flux lines. Too big to wander around like single entities without feeling bereft, rattling against the walls. They are magnetised.

Joey realises that true friendship is a contract in which there can be no fine print, that people do not stay within dotted lines and signature boxes. They might even use red ink instead of black.

“This is just a one time thing, right?”

“No names,” Jesse murmurs as he pushes Joey onto the king-sized bed, as the rest of the world is closed off behind them and they spiral into each other, “no pack drill.”


End file.
